


Slowly Melting Snow

by leopardchic79



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Feelings, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26886448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leopardchic79/pseuds/leopardchic79
Summary: Good, bad, and everywhere in between...feelings can be difficult to figure out.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 85





	Slowly Melting Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Oh how quickly I've come to love these two!

Gawain found him slumped against a tree, a good distance from where he normally spent his time in the forest. His legs were splayed out in front of him, sword still in hand at his side. 

“Lancelot?” he called, worry coloring his voice. 

He looked up slowly, a flicker of surprise passing over his face before settling back into its normal, stoic expression. 

“What happened?” 

Lancelot shrugged, dropping his gaze to his sword. Gawain came closer and knelt down next to him, eyes following his gaze and feeling a flicker of concern at the blood he saw glinting off of the metal. His hand went to his own weapon automatically, but Lancelot met his eyes again and shook his head a little. 

“Don’t worry…there’s no danger.” 

“What happened?” he asked again. 

“Men…” he answered, voice flat. 

Gawain frowned. “Paladins?” 

Lancelot shook his head. “No. I don’t know where their allegiances lied, but it was not with the Fey. I think it was mainly with gold.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Because apparently there’s a bounty on my head from the church.” 

He didn’t look surprised, although Gawain thought he detected a small flicker of pain at the words. He’d grown better at reading him in the past year and a half, but Lancelot certainly never made it easy for him. 

“I’m assuming they won’t be collecting...” 

Lancelot nodded to Gawain’s right. “There’s a rather large cliff over there,” he answered. “I killed them and threw them over…I doubt anyone will find them for a very long time.” 

“Do you think any others will come this way?” Gawain asked. 

“No.” 

Lancelot shifted to stand up, very pointedly not meeting Gawain’s eyes. But he wasn’t quick enough to hide his wince or the way he struggled to his feet. 

“You’re hurt,” Gawain commented, concerned. He reached out to help steady him, but drew back quickly when Lancelot flinched. It was hard to remember that these normal actions were often still difficult for him. 

“I’m fine,” he answered sharply. 

Rolling his eyes, Gawain moved to step closer to him, but made sure to keep his hands at his sides. “You’re the most graceful person I know, now you’re struggling to stand up. What happened?” 

Lancelot glared at him, but Gawain wasn’t swayed and glared right back. “I can stand here and glare just as long as you can, Lancelot.” 

A few more moments passed before Lancelot gave in, familiar by now with how stubborn Gawain could be. “One of them may have nicked me in the side…I’ll be fine.” 

“Oh will you?” he replied, unimpressed. 

“I’m hardly dying.” 

“Well, Goliath seemed concerned enough to make his way back to camp. Why else do you think I came looking for you?” 

That wasn’t completely true. Yes, the horse had made its way back to their camp – startling Squirrel and sending the panicked boy to Gawain’s tent. It had spurred Gawain to leave quickly to look for the errant Fey, but he would’ve gone looking for him soon enough anyway. 

The past year and a half had brought many changes. They were, as a group, relatively safer than they had been previously. They had managed to build a camp that the humans, for the most part, avoided. They weren’t exactly thriving, but they were far better off than they had been. 

Personally, the biggest change for Gawain was the presence of Lancelot in his life now. 

A year and a half ago, he had mysteriously survived death thanks to Nimue’s strength and connection with the Hidden – he still didn’t have a definitive answer as to what had happened to bring him back. He had found his way north to what was left of the Fey and had immediately set out in helping to rebuild something safe for as many as he could. 

And then Squirrel had appeared in their camp with The Weeping Monk in tow. 

At first, he had wanted nothing more than justice for all of the lost lives of his brethren, but it was difficult to ignore the fervency with which Lancelot renounced the Red Paladins. Or the way that Squirrel was so obviously attached to him. Or the quiet way he had of never asking for anything, convinced he deserved every look and word of scorn. His obvious torment…the physical and psychological abuse he had suffered since he was a child at the hands of the church. 

So Gawain had been torn, and then drawn in with the desire to understand and to…help. 

And then finally, he’d found himself here. Undeniably attracted to him, undeniably desperate to be closer to him in so many ways…and completely unsure how to make any of it happen. 

Lancelot had changed a lot since he’d come to their camp, but he was still very much recovering from years of cruel manipulation and abuse. He still flinched away from most touches, he still spoke his mind only occasionally and almost-always only after he’d been asked a question. He still struggled with deep feelings of self-loathing and the misguided idea that he was damned. 

It broke Gawain’s heart. 

But he had grown stronger too. And the two of them had gotten close. Gawain had spent the past few months slowly coaxing him out of his shell just the tiniest bit. Listening whenever he shared bits and pieces of his horrifying past…comforting when he could and as much as Lancelot would allow. Trying his best to help him come to terms with who and what he was and realize that it was nothing to feel shame or disgust for. Figuring out ways to make him smile, and feeling particularly triumphant on those rare occasions when he would even earn a laugh. 

Occasionally though, life in camp got to be too much for Lancelot. Save Squirrel and Pym, there were only a few other Fey who were kind to him, let alone trusted him not to kill them all in their sleep. Gawain couldn’t blame them completely…The Weeping Monk had burned so many of their homes and murdered so many of their kin. Despite his abuse and torment by the Paladins to make him into their weapon, it didn’t change what he had done. 

So when it became too much, he would escape to the forest for a few days. Gawain had followed him the first time…concerned and maybe just a little bit distrustful. Lancelot hadn’t been quick to offer an explanation, but Gawain had persisted, uncertain why he was so upset. Except that when Gawain had decided to take it on himself to vouch for him, he’d become _his_ responsibility. He’d also become a steady, daily presence in his life. They shared a tent. At first because Gawain hadn’t trusted him enough to be on his own…or trusted that someone wouldn’t try to kill him. Then it was because he enjoyed his company and didn’t like the idea of him being anywhere else. And maybe he was far too used to falling asleep to the sound of him breathing. 

It had been…disconcerting. And no less than a little terrifying to realize that he might have developed deeper feelings for the other Fey than he had ever expected or intended. 

But he had no idea what to do with those feelings. No clear idea on how to approach a situation with someone who was so very, very different from anyone he’d ever pursued before. So he’d let him stay in the forest on his own for a few days, figuring the space would be good for both of them. 

Now, it was a few months after his revelation and he still hadn’t made any progress. 

“Seriously, Lancelot…are you badly hurt?” he asked, wanting very much to reach out and touch, to make sure he wasn’t about to drop dead. There was also the lingering worry in the back of his mind that Lancelot used these times alone in the forest to hurt himself. The thought was horrifying and something that Gawain wished so very badly had no reason to be true. 

He shook his head, pressing a hand against his side and wincing subtly. “No. I’ll be okay.” 

Gawain murmured his agreement for the time being, but he had no intention of letting Lancelot idly tend his wounds on his own, and would take him to see Pym as soon as they got back to camp. They started walking slowly through the forest. “I guess I should thank you for protecting everyone again.” 

“They weren’t much of a threat. I doubt they would’ve found their way to camp.” 

“Still…thank you.” 

Lancelot stopped, eyes downcast. “You shouldn’t thank me.” 

Gawain turned, frowning. “Why not?” 

He was quiet for a while, but Gawain was patient. Finally, he stopped and turned to face him, though he kept his eyes on the forest floor. He seemed to draw in on himself, and Gawain would’ve sworn he could see him tremble. 

“I heard them talking,” he began, voice low and gravelly. “Before they saw me…they mentioned how they church was losing its stronghold over the throne. They didn’t seem particularly concerned or religious…more interested in that the church has deep pockets and would pay well. Both for me – alive or dead – or information about where I might be. Especially after last year’s slaughter at the Pendragon camp…” he paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “And how the Wolf-Blood Witch had beheaded the Paladins’ leader.” 

Gawain sucked in a sharp breath and froze when Lancelot finally looked up and met his gaze. He had never been sure if Lancelot had garnered that Nimue had killed Father Carden or not. But there was a depth of feeling in his eyes now that Gawain wasn’t entirely sure how to read. He stepped closer without thinking, reaching out to gently grasp his arm. He was more than a little surprised when Lancelot did not pull away. 

“I was…glad to hear it,” he went on eventually. “I know how much destruction he’s wrought and all of the pain and suffering he’s caused. But I…” he faltered, and dropped his gaze again. Gawain could feel him trembling underneath his fingertips this time and he wanted nothing more than to reach for him more fully. 

“What is it?” he asked softly. Lancelot’s pain and uncertainty was plain to see in the way he was holding himself, Gawain just wasn’t entirely sure of the cause. 

“I also…” he paused, drew in a shaky breath, and looked up again, shame written clearly in his eyes now. “I also felt grief.” He stumbled over the last word, as if it were a curse. He looked so terribly distraught that Gawain felt his heart ache sharply in his chest. “He hurt me over and over…all of my life practically. He made me do terrible things and think that I was just. He…broke me,” he managed, voice breaking now as he squeezed his eyes shut. “But he was…he raised me, Gawain,” he protested, sad and weary. “And I hate him and I’m glad he can’t harm anyone ever again, but I still felt pained and I shouldn’t and I’m sorry…” 

Gawain could no longer resist. He stepped closer, still careful and precise in his actions, as he reached out and gently pulled Lancelot into his arms. That he came eagerly and gripped tightly to him spoke to the level of his pain. 

“You don’t have to apologize for how you feel,” Gawain murmured after a few moments. 

“But…” 

Gawain shook his head and pulled back a little so he could look into his eyes, keeping his arms around his back. “I know it doesn’t make sense,” he went on. “Logically, you know how you _should_ feel, but it’s not always that simple.” He watched the desperation play out in Lancelot’s eyes, felt his harsh breathing and the way his fingers were gripping tightly to his arms. It was difficult not to reach out for more, to slide his fingers through his hair to the back of his neck, to trace his thumb over the dark markings on his cheeks. 

“I’m _glad_ he’s dead, Gawain,” he insisted. He seemed insecure…not quite sure if Gawain believed him or not and desperate to make sure he did. 

Nodding, Gawain pressed the tiniest bit closer. “I believe you,” he responded softly. “But it’s okay if you also felt grief, even if it was just for a moment,” he went on. “It’s possible to feel both you know, even if they contradict one another.” 

Lancelot stilled at that, calming somewhat and looking at him curiously. Gawain let him process the words, the idea, knowing that these sorts of situations were still difficult for him. Being taught not to feel anything – besides shame and fanaticism and righteous fury – made everything else harder to understand. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” he finally answered, expression more skeptical now than upset. 

Smiling, Gawain shook his head and laughed a little. “I know…I never said it did. Just that it’s sometimes normal to feel more than one thing at a time.” 

It didn’t escape his notice that Lancelot had yet to pull away from him, was still looking at him with a quiet sort of intensity. It was causing him to feel his own set of several feelings at the moment. “We should probably head back to camp,” he said eventually, clearing this throat over the roughness in his voice. 

Lancelot still didn’t move away for another few moments, studying him, seemingly comfortable with their close proximity when he was very often not. Gawain watched him, his breath coming a little quicker, his pulse steadily increasing. He wanted so very badly to move closer, to reach out, to touch. But he was still paralyzed with the worry that it would be a mistake. That he would cause Lancelot to shut down, to run, to…refuse. 

Sighing softly, Lancelot pulled away and tugged absently at his sleeves, eyes glancing up at the sky. “It’s getting colder…I think it might snow later.” 

Gawain would’ve sworn he saw frustration in his face, heard disappointment in his sigh. Except he wasn’t sure if he was simply seeing what he wanted to. He hummed in agreement, suddenly uncertain if he shouldn’t have been more…bold. They walked back to camp in silence as the sun began to set. 

~*~*~ 

Squirrel came running the moment they walked into camp, having obviously been watching for Gawain’s return. 

Lancelot smiled warmly and reassured him that he was fine, quick to hide his small wince when the boy pressed a tight hug to his side. He reassured Lancelot that he had taken care of Goliath and he was safe with the other horses. 

The easy affection and care he held for Squirrel never failed to make Gawain smile. The boy had done so much to bring Lancelot out of his shell and help him heal. 

They stopped to see Pym next at Gawain’s insistence even though Lancelot swore he would be fine. Pym simply rolled her eyes at their bickering and dragged him into her tent to check his injury and dress his wound. Gawain told him he’d see him back at their tent, walking slowly across camp and smiling when he noticed a few snowflakes floating to the ground. 

By the time Lancelot came inside a little while later, the snow was falling more steadily. He brushed the white flakes off of his cloak before removing it. 

“Feeling okay?” Gawain asked, watching him closely. 

Lancelot rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I told you I was fine.” 

Gawain raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.” 

The silence that fell between them was comfortable as it usually was, but now charged with something else. Lancelot’s eyes were bright, not looking away from him, full of things he couldn’t quite read. He seemed to want to say something else, but couldn’t figure out how to do it. That wasn’t exactly unusual for him, but this seemed to be different and once again Gawain was struck with the thought that he needed to push this along and make the first move. 

He stood up just as Lancelot turned away. “I forgot to get us water,” he mumbled, moving to go back outside. 

“Wait…” 

“I’ll be right back…” 

He rushed away and Gawain wanted to kick himself. 

It took all of five minutes for Lancelot to return, setting down a bucket of water and very pointedly avoiding Gawain’s eyes. 

Gawain came closer and Lancelot froze, biting down on his bottom lip and looking undeniably nervous. His cheeks were pink from the cold, making the markings under his eyes stand out more than usual. Gawain wanted very badly to touch them. 

He reached out slowly and brushed his hand across Lancelot’s shoulder. “You’ve got snow on you,” he murmured. 

Lancelot froze, shivering a little and swallowing hard. 

Smiling, Gawain went further, fingers brushing gently through his hair to remove the melting snowflakes. He could feel him trembling a little under his touch, could hear the way his breath quickened, saw the desperation in his eyes. He let his hand drop to the side of his neck, could feel his pulse fluttering beneath his fingers. It was when he felt Lancelot’s fingers reach out and tug gently on the bottom of his shirt that he finally swallowed his nerves, leaned in closer and kissed him. 

Lancelot sighed softly and practically melted against him. Gawain wrapped his other arm around his back and pulled him closer. His head was quickly swimming and he wondered why on earth he had waited so long to do this. Lancelot’s mouth was hot and soft and sweet and Gawain was instantly addicted. 

It was nowhere near long enough, but Gawain pulled back slowly after a few moments to make sure he was still okay. His eyes were still shut, face flushed, lips damp and parted just a little. He was stunningly beautiful and Gawain felt incredibly lucky. 

“Still with me?” he asked softly. 

His eyes fluttered open and he smiled softly and nodded. 

Gawain returned his smile and brushed his thumb gently down his cheek, across his jaw and behind his ear, watching as he shivered. Lancelot pressed in closer, wrapping one arm around his back tentatively and reaching up with his other hand to rest on Gawain’s shoulder, fingers brushing over the exposed skin of his neck just a little bit. Gawain drew in a sharp breath at the touch and was quick to reward his bravery with another kiss. 

It was deeper this time but no less gentle, all soft pressure and warm heat as they pulled each other closer. This time, Lancelot pulled away with a soft whimper and immediately buried his face in Gawain’s neck, breathing harshly and clutching tightly to his back. Gawain held him close and pressed a kiss to the side of his head, running his hands up and down his back to soothe. He could tell that he was overwhelmed and was very unsurprised. 

“Gawain…” he called softly, breath warm against the side of his neck. 

“Hmm?” 

He didn’t say anything else for a few minutes, but Gawain was patient, continuing to trace his fingers across his back. He was more than content to finally have Lancelot in his arms. 

“I don’t know what to do next…” he admitted finally, stumbling over the words. 

Gawain smiled and pulled back to take his face in his hands and look into his eyes. “You don’t have to do anything,” he answered softly. “I’d never push you into anything you didn’t want to do.” 

“But I…I don’t exactly _know_ what I want to do. Or not do.” He sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor. 

Patient, Gawain pressed his fingers beneath his chin and tilted his face up again. “I know,” he replied gently. “But we can figure it out together. And slowly.” 

Lancelot regarded him steadily for a long time before finally smiling shyly and nodding. He leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to Gawain’s lips. “I’d like that.” 


End file.
